


In Plain Sight

by JustAnotherUnderstudy



Series: This Should Totally Be A Thing [48]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, Hiding in Plain Sight, Older Woman/Younger Man, Rare Pairings, Rare Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:34:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22092667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAnotherUnderstudy/pseuds/JustAnotherUnderstudy
Summary: Here it is. The crossover absolutely nobody asked for. Well, my son asked for it, but I think he had something more exciting in mind. Too bad. This is what I came up with. Total spoilers for Knives Out.
Relationships: Benoit Blanc/Olivia Mansfield, James Bond/M, James Bond/M | Olivia Mansfield
Series: This Should Totally Be A Thing [48]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/579049
Comments: 10
Kudos: 21





	In Plain Sight

**Author's Note:**

> Since we saw the trailer for Knives Out, my son and I have been pondering possible crossover scenarios. After seeing the movie, twice now, I told him that none of our ideas are happening (though I’m leaning toward evil Captain America offspring ;)).
> 
> Anyway, I am part of a very tiny ship that I love so that’s what this is. 
> 
> As regards the Bond side, ignores Spectre, as do almost all my stories.

“Evening Mr. Blanc,” the night doorman said when he opened the cab door.

Blanc paid the cab driver, grabbed his overnight case from the seat next to him, and stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of his Manhattan apartment.

He nodded to the doorman and headed into the building.

“Welcome back, Mr. Blanc,” the guard at the desk called to him as he strode across the lobby.

Blanc waved a hand and silently entered the elevator.

When the doors shut out the lights of the lobby, Blanc leaned against the back rail and watched the numbers over the door as he ascended to the penthouse suite. Before the doors opened to his floor, he took one, long deep breath and slowly let it out.

The bell dinged quietly and the doors slid open. Blanc stepped across the hall, looked around out of habit, and slid the key into the lock. When he heard the lock click over, he placed his right hand purposefully on the doorknob so his thumb pressed against a small pad on the bottom of the knob. There was a quiet whirring noise, then the door swung open.

The small lamp on the entry table was lit to remind him that he was expected. A slight smile crossed his face. He left his keys in the bowl next to the lamp, which he switched off and headed further into the apartment.

The rest of the flat was softly lit to guide him to the bedroom. Blanc turned off the lights one by one as he made his way through the living room, up the stairs, and down the hall to the bedroom.

He entered the room silently and stared briefly at the sleeping figure in the bed. Then he walked to the large walk-in closet, shut the door, and switched on the light inside. He left his case by his shoes. He could deal with the laundry in the morning. Then he quickly shucked his clothes, leaving only his boxers. He dropped the clothes into the laundry basket and followed the line of hung clothes and organized shoes toward the back of the closet where there was a door to the bathroom.

He dropped his shorts and stepped into the shower. He turned the water on as high as he could stand it and tried to let the heat work out the stress of the last few days.

When he felt himself beginning to relax, Blanc turned off the water and dried himself off.

Five minutes later, he turned off the rest of the lights and headed to the bed.

As he pulled the covers up over himself, he shifted to spoon up against the woman lying there. He kissed her shoulder and breathed in her scent.

“Mmm, back?”

Her normally husky accent was made even more deep by sleep and he felt it in every nerve.

“Almost.” He replied in his drawl and kissed the back of her neck.

She tensed and he knew there would be questions. He didn’t often use the phrase “almost” when he returned, and she knew him better than any other. She would know it was significant.

“What happened?” She asked, her voice more alert now.

“I got caught up in the role and someone almost died,” he told her.

She turned in his arms and he could feel her looking at him, which was absurd because it was pitch black and her sight was dimming. Maybe it was the memory of her probing looks that made him feel laid bare before her.

“That’s bound to happen sometimes, Benoit,” she said, her slight emphasis on his first name kept him focused as he tried to explain what had happened at the Thromby mansion.

“I forgot just how evil people can be,” he said. “Even though I was dealing with a murder, I slipped up and I let a situation get out of hand.”

She said nothing as she waited for him to get his thoughts together.

“I was questioning a murder suspect,” he said after several moments.

Then he mumbled the rest.

“In a room full of knives.”

He expected a bit of chastisement, a short *tsk* as she clicked her tongue. He wasn’t expecting laughter.

She pressed her head against his chest. It was a good minute before the laughter turned into a silent shaking of her body.

“I fail to see the humor, ma’am,” he grumbled.

“No, no, of course not,” she said, humor heavy in her voice.

She took a deep breath.

“Go on,” she said.

He looked down at her, his eyes now adjusted to the darkness and he could make out the silver of her hair in the small amount of light in the room. He was suddenly reminded of his conversation with Mrs. Thromby in the sitting room. What he’d told her, about feeling old and tired, was only partially to gain her confidence. He was beginning to feel his age.

“What else is there to say?” He asked. “I figured out who the killer was, I brought him into a room full of knives, and I chose to question him there.”

“So Harlan Thromby was murdered?” She asked.

“No,” he told her. “The housekeeper was.”

She pulled out of his arms and turned over in the bed. The bedside lamp came on with no warning and Blanc closed his eyes against the sudden glare.

“Alright,” she said, her voice taking on a commanding tone. “I think this demands a better explanation.”

He sighed as he took in her alertness. She looked as if she could throw on one of her old power suits and head into the office to prevent another world catastrophe and hardly miss the sleep.

But he knew better than to argue with her when she got like this, so, despite his exhaustion, he sat up in the bed to adjust the pillows so he could lean back against the head board as they spoke.

Then he told her everything after the envelope full of money, which she already knew about. He told her of the Thromby’s and their formerly sheltered lives, of the nurse, Marta Cabrera, and all the happenings since he left four days earlier.

She listened attentively, as if she needed to debrief him.

Finally, he leaned his head back on the head board and sighed.

“I’m getting old,” he paused. “And slow.”

He thought of how when he was a younger man he could have caught Ransom and kept him from even getting his hands on Marta.

“But it was fake,” she said.

“They all were’” he said.

“Did you know that?” She asked.

He nodded.

“I had examined them each time I entered the room and had found they were all collapsible,” he said.

“So you didn’t really mess up,” she said.

“Marta didn’t know,” he said. “She really thought that asshole was going to kill her.”

She leaned over and pressed her lips gently against his.

“Stop beating yourself up over nothing,” she said. “You did far worse in your youth.”

He snorted and shook his head.

“How soon you forget,” she said as she turned away from him and reached to turn off the light.

“I haven’t forgotten, ma’am,” he said and he drew out the ma’am to let her know he did remember the fallacies of his youth.

They settled into the bed and he took her into his arms again.

“You sound like you are back,” she said.

He chuckled.

“Yes,” he said, his voice back to his normal British accent.

“Good, because you have bigger fish to fry, James,” she told him.

He grimaced, suspecting he knew what she was going to say.

“M called?” He asked, his voice sheepish.

“Of course, M called,” she said. “That article in the New Yorker had him all up in a thither.”

James chuckled as he could imagine M “all up in a thither.”

“He all but recalled you to England,” she told him.

“He wouldn’t,” he said with confidence.

“Why not?” She asked. “That was brash, even for you.”

“Oh, for god’s sake, I’ve had my picture plastered on the front page of the paper for far worse,” he said.

“Yes, but I was M then,” she reminded him.

He sighed.

“What does he want me to do?” He asked.

“Call him in the morning,” she said.

“Ours or his?”

She elbowed him and he whined.

“He won’t recall me,” he said again.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m the only one who will put up with your abuse,” he said with a smirk.

She began to laugh again.

“Oh, you poor thing,” she said. “You suffer so.”

He hummed in agreement and pressed his lips behind her ear.

“Perhaps M will send me a different agent to ‘abuse,’” she said.

He stiffened.

“Is there some other agent you’d prefer?” He asked, then he nipped her ear lobe.

“Tanner was always a good man,” she said.

James could hear laughter in her voice.

“Tanner, of course,” he commented dryly. “He always did put up with you.”

She hummed and James could feel her beginning to relax.

“Sleep,” he whispered.

As Olivia drifted back to sleep, James’ mind began going over the case again. He wondered when he’d allowed himself to get so soft that he couldn’t see that a man who would kill his own grandfather for money would have no problem murdering again, even in the presence of law enforcement. He’d met some very depraved people in his time, and Hugh Ransom Drysdale was certainly among them. 

Maybe James had gotten comfortable living among normal people. Normal people didn’t see a killer or a terrorist behind every face. 

James Bond had gone soft, he supposed. Still, Benoit Blanc didn’t miss the looks the Thromby’s gave Marta before he left. Maybe he should stop in for a visit in a few days, just to make sure they knew someone was still keeping an eye on them. Killers didn’t spring from the mud, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Essentially, James and Olivia have been in hiding since post-Skyfall, but James got bored and found himself a hobby using his new identity of Benoit Blanc. He turned out to be pretty good at it and got in the New Yorker. It really was much better than that unflattering expose of him blowing up an embassy that once made the front page of The Times. ;D


End file.
